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Sonnets from the Patagonian 

Donald Evans 



SONNETS FROM THE PATAGOXIAN 



BOOKS ly DONALD EVANS 
Published by NICHOLAS L. BROWN : 

DISCORDS 

Two DEATHS IN THE BRONX 

NINE POEMS FROM A VALETUDINARIUM 

SONNETS FROM THE PATAGONIAN 

Special Edition of the last title on Etruria (Italian 
hand-made) paper limited to 28 numbered copies, 
signed by author and publisher. Insert one full 
sonnet written in the author s hand. $15.00. 



This edition is limited to 750 copies. 



bonnets from the T)atagonian 



vans \ 



Philadelphia Jtfickolai T-K ~ - n IQlS 



COPYRIGHT, 1918 

BY 

NICHOLAS L. BKOWN 



AD VERTISEMENT 
My dear Cornwall Hollis: 

With the Allied cause crumbling away it is high time 
we thought of aesthetics. As a triste jest I said that to 
you the other day, and your reply was a plea to let you 
write a preface for a new edition of my forgotten Sonnets 
from the Patagonian. I am at last persuaded, and who but 
you should do the preface? 

With Mitteleuropa a fact it should be apparent to any 
honest, thinking man that we are losing the War. Perhaps, 
in a larger sense, we have already lost the War and the 
dusk of the Anglo-Saxon is come. Then we are at last 
joined with the Hellenes and Latins in the descending 
scale, and it is the Teuton now approaching the perihelion, 
with the Slav, yet to conquer, in the far distance. But 
that is an eye-survey for eternity, and we have merely to 
do with the finite present. So we may still think of 
resistance, and not yet abandon hope of postponing defeat. 

It is now the hour for the supreme test of America, and 
she too must fail, as our Allies have failed, before the Huns 
unless somewhere she can find the beauty and the strength 
of the human soul with which to give battle. For the first 
time in history it is souls, not guns, that will win the War, 
and remember, my dear friend, that Beauty is more neces 
sary than food that the soul may live. 



We are all but engulfed in error. We say that ive do not 
liate the German people; it is the Kaiser we are fighting. 
A pitiful self-delusion! It must be the Gefman people we 
hate as an overshadowing race, if our fight is to have even 
the excuse of the inflamed passion of the survival of the 
fittest. We must acknowledge the Kaiser as the symbol of 
the best organized form of government, unless we are 
frankly anarchists; the most efficient, the most powerful, 
the most nearly approaching a practical socialism. Let us, 
therefore, start afresh. We hate the German people, for 
they have threatened our complacent supremacy as lords 
of the world. Now we are at least truthful. 

Thus far, the Allies have failed signally as a miUtari/ 
force. The Europeans have forgotten how to fight, and we 
in America have never learned. We have put too much 
faith in materialism, and betrayed the Soul and Beauty. 
There is more to life than living, and more to an army than 
arms. The moment is here that demands we scrap the 
military leaders, as such, and seek stronger. Why not then 
turn to the Poets to direct the War, for, lo! it was the 
Poets who in seven days won the Irish Revolution. None 
knows better than you how I begrudge giving the ever- 
turbulent West Britons any praise, any glory, but there is 
the simple truth. They vanquished the foe because they 
first had conquered fear, and then nought could stand 
against them. 

If we could purge ourselves of our fear of Germany we 
should capture Berlin. Could I enlist a Battalion of Jrre- 
proachables, whose uniforms should be walking suit, top hat 
and pumps, and their only weapon an ebony stick, and sail 
tomorrow, we should march down Unter den Linden in a 
month, provided wrapped in our kerchiefs we carried the 
Gospel of Beauty, and a nonchalance in the knot of our 
cravats. 



Verily, verily, men are killed solely because they fear 
death, and turn their backs on Beauty, for only ugliness 
and error can destroy, and ugliness in the end destroys 
itself. 

There is really no horror in the War. Even in the 
ridiculous way we are now fighting it is all a shabby, stupid 
sham. That chap Griffith gave us a more realistic spectacle 
in "The Birth of a Nation." Far too few men are actually 
kilted and wounded, and the job is much too large for the 
materialists. They do not know how to employ effectively 
the huge forces they have raised into being. 

If somehow we can grope our way back to the springs 
of Beauty all may yet be saved, but it will require the 
sacrifice of everything we have. For myriads it will mean 
the offering of their lives, for that is all they possess, and 
it must be done freely, gladly, with their souls purified, 
if it is to avail anything. Pride, ambition, selfishness, self- 
will must go, or we perish blind miserables. 

For myself, you know I am willingly in service as a 
common soldier, although some years beyond conscription 
age. Ungrudgingly I gave up alcohol almost a lifelong 
necessity and for months I. the Epicurean, have been 
dispassionately measuring the supposed hardships of war 
that 1 might truly understand what a soldier has to 
undergo. With Beauty in the bloodbeat privation is noth 
ing. What can touch me now except the amusing joy of 
giving up for the common good? Yet who actually loves 
humankind less than I? But the subordination idea in 
trigues me, possesses me, satisfies me. How better can I 
prove my patent of snobbery and my innate right cordially 
to dislike my fellow-men? 

The social degradation involved in functioning as an 
enlisted man was and, of course, is the wof&t of the annoy 
ances. I am neither young enough nor sufficiently demo- 



cratic to enjoy day after day a below-stairs status. It is a 
trial, I confess, but I venture to persuade myself that I do 
all that is required of me with admirable abasement and 
detachment. Occasionally, indeed, it is capital fun to play 
the anonymous cipher. I am often urged to obtain a com 
mission. But I cannot quite do that, for would not that be 
a confession that I hadn t the pluck to stick it out? I must 
remain as I am. Many of my contemporaries are finding 
the khaki an easy means of increasing their literary reputa 
tions. Wise brothers, ye have chosen your roles. I prefer 
mine. 

Before you have seen my book through the press I may 
be dead. With all my heart I hope I shall not come back, 
for then impersonally I shall have fallen for a cause in 
which I have no faith. What more distinguished end for 
an incurable poseur? Have I not been called that? Plant, 
I beg you, mignonette to encircle my arrowroot fields. 

What has all this to do with the Sonnets from the Pata- 
gonian? If you will read my words aright they will give 
the key to my poems, should you, my beloved Hollis, still 
lack a key. The volume when it first appeared was not 
liked by divers nice people it ivas thought nasty but 
none put it down till he had finished it; a terror was on 
him lest he miss a word. And the terror was the Sword 
of Beauty which slayelh all. Intrepidity .... 

But you shall interpret the poems yourself. 

DONALD EVANS. 



I have broken my engagement to write a preface, but 
have given you, gentle Reader, the Poet s letter instead. 

CORNWALL HOLLIS. 



INDICES 



LOVE ix PATAGOXIA 

Love in Patagonia : p. 15 

PORTRAITS OF IGOR YYVTAX 
In the Vices: p. 19 
En Monocle: p. 20 

PORTRAIT OF THE FAX FAX 
Loving Kindness: p. 23 

PORTRAIT OF MME. HYSSAIX 

Theatre dn Xord : p. 27 

PORTRAIT: Ix MEMORIAM 
Failure at Forty: p. 31 

PORTRAIT OF A GEXTLE^IAX AXD A LADY 
Aspens at Cresheim: p. 35 



PORTRAIT OF MICHAEL PETEU 
Birthday Piece No. 2 : p. 39 

PORTRAITS or MABEL DODGE 
Her Smile: p. 43 
The Last Dance at Dawn : p. 44 

PORTRAIT OF CARL VAN VECIITEN- 
In the Gentlemanly Interest: p. 47 

PORTRAITS OF LOUISE NORTON 
Buvense d ; Absinthe: p. 51 
Extreme Unction: p. 52 
The Jade Vase : p. 53 

PORTRAITS OF THE AUTHOR 
Epicede: p. 57 
In the Falklands: p. 58 
The Noon of Night : p. 59 
Fifth Avenue: p. GO 



LOVE IN PATAGONIA A fir/lM 






To 

Carl Van Vechten 



LOVE IN PATAGONIA 

FORGETTING her mauve vows the Fania fled, 
Taking away her moonlight scarves with her- 
There was no joy left in the calendar, 
And life was but an orchid that was dead. 
Even our pious peacocks went unfed 
I had deserved no treachery like this, 
For I had bitten sharp kiss after kiss 
Devoutly, till her sleek young body bled. 

Then Carlo came ; he shone like a new sin 
Straightway- 1 knew pearl-powder still was sweet, 
And that my bleeding heart would not be scarred. 
I sought a shop where shoes were sold within, 
And for three hundred francs made brave my feet, 
And then I danced along the boulevard ! 



15 



PORTRAITS OF IGOR VYVYAX 



To 

Pitts Sanborn 



IN THE VICES 

GAY and audacious crime glints in his eyes, 
And his mad talk, raping the commonplace, 
Gleefully runs a devil-praising race, 
And none can ever follow where he flies. 
He streaks himself with vices tenderly ; 
He cradle? sin, and with a figleaf fan 
Taps his green cat, watching a bored sun span 
The wasted minutes to eternity. 

Once I took up his trail along the dark, 
Wishful to track him to the witches flame, 
To see the bubbling of the sneer and snare. 
The way led through a fragrant starlit park, 
And soon upon a harlot s house I came 
Within I found him playing at solitaire ! 



10 



EN MONOCLE 

BORN with a monocle he stares at life, 
And sends his soul on pensive promenades ; 
He pays a high price for discarded gods, 
And then regilds them to renew their strife. 
His calm moustache points to the ironies, 
And a fawn-coloured laugh sucks in the night, 
Full of the riant mists that turn to white 
In brief lost battles with banalities. 

Masters are makeshifts and a path to tread 
For blue pumps that are ardent for the air ; 
Features are fixtures when the face is fled, 
And we are left the husks of tarnished hair ; 
But he is one who lusts uncomforted 
To kiss the naked phrase quite unaware. 



20 



PORTRAIT OF THE FAX FAX 

Imitated from "Discords" 



To 

Donovan Blades 



LOVING KINDNESS 
Moscow 

HER flesh was lyrical and sweet to flog, 
For the whip blanched her blood, though every vein 
Flooded with hate shot a hot flow of pain, 
And her screams were muffled by a brackish fog. 
He loved her, yet his passion could but fret 
Unless he lashed her to an awkward rage 
But when his hand wrote terror on her page 
He knew exultant joy of feigned regret. 

Theirs was a bond that poured the wine of fear, 
And he drained her stiffened limbs with cruel art. 
He taught her that all tenderness had fled 
Till she would beg the hurt to taste the tear, 
And when she bent to kiss her quivering heart 
It lit a Chinese candle in his head. 



23 



PORTRAIT OF MME. HYSSAIX 



To 

John Darby 



THEATRE DU NORD 

Taslilcend 



SHE was tired to tears, and vet there were no tear?, 
Only the dead seas of indifference 
Meeting the languors of a nerveless sense, 
For she had played the roles for twenty years. 
The queen called for her satins, while the drab 
Demanded love, and the wild hunger tore ; 
The woman raged to touch the flame once more, 
But the worn-out emotions could not stab. 

There were the thousand parts she had essayed, 
And the three thousand gowns that she had worn. 
Into the ragbag each frock found its flight, 
Crumpled and ravished of a film-proud shade, 
And every script is wandering forlorn, 
Gnawed by the mirage of an opening night. 



27 



PORTRAIT: IX MEMORIAM 



To 

Hugh Campbell 



FAILURE AT FORTY 

HE SAW there was no choice to left or right- 
Time that had marked him for the least of sages 
Pointed the hour, and several blotted pages 
Stood witness to the struggle in the night. 
Behind him la} 7 a happiness that might 
Have made him shine a figure through the ages ; 
Before him loomed a toiling at mean wages., 
Alternative to sinking out of sight. 

This much was sure he never need retrace; 

The leagues that he had travelled were an ending. 

There wound no footpath to a sunlit place. 

Where he might nurse his dreams, with peace attending 

No promised joy would quicken the day s pace. 

N"or write the past a blunder still worth mending. 



31 



POETEAIT OF A GEXTLEMAX AND 
A LADY 



To 

Enid Welsh 



ASPENS AT CRESHEIM 

SHE had become a stranger suddenly, 
Just as all men were strangers ; then he knew 
Why she must be an alien even she ! 
Since there was nought her human love could do 
To give him the last access to her soul. 
Keturning came his years as wholly vain 
Eepeated payment of inutile toll 
To reach a shrine he would not seek again. 

It scarcely left him sad to find how wrong 
Had been his vision of won womanhood 
This yearning ache that he had held so long 
For a full mingling of their separate blood. 
Freed, solitary now, with unscared eyes 
He gazed anew at life safe from surprise ! 



35 



PORTRAIT OF MICHAEL PETER 



To 

Fania Marino ff 



BIRTHDAY PIECE NO. 2 

THERE is what is and what there is is fair, 
But most is yet to come to what is here; 
Here is the most to come from out a year, 
For from the year there comes all there is there. 
Song for the minnow and a crystal pool, 
And all is said of all there was to say., 
Yet all must say the all, since every day 
A nuptial kiss the wise man gives a fool. 

An ear of corn from the blind red sunburnt earth 
Blandly lies in the sun divinely green, 
Disowning what the earth and sun have done. 
Kisses and corn and a pool to crown the birth, 
With once to come what never before has been. 
And here is there what there is here begun. 



39 



POETEAITS OF MABEL DODGE 



To 

Louis Slier win 



HER SMILE 
Laggan 

HER hidden smile was full of little breasts, 
And with her too white hands she stroked her fears. 
The while the serpent peered at her arched ears, 
And night s grim hours stalked in, unbidden guests. 
A noise was in her eyes that sang of scorn, 
And round her voice there gleamed a nameless dread, 
As though her lips were hungry for the dead, 
Yet knew the food of dawn would be forlorn. 

The cold hours ebbed, and still she held her throne; 
Across the sky the lightning made mad play, 
And then the scarlet screams stood forth revealed. 
She turned her back, and grasped a monotone ; 
It answered all; she lived again that day 
She triumphed in the tragic turnip field. 



THE LAST DANCE AT DAWN 

Firenze 

AND she was sad since she could not be sad, 
And every star fled amorous from the sky. 
Her pampered knees fell under her keen eye 
And it came to her she would not go mad. 
The gaucheries were turning the last screw, 
But there was still the island in the sea, 
The harridan chorus of eternity, 
That let her smile because he saw she knew. 

She even dared be impudent again, 

And bit his ear; the deaths were far away. 

A Black Mass sounded from the treasure vaults 

She tried to rouge her heart, yet quite in vain. 
The crucifix danced in, beribboned, gay, 
And lisped to her a wish for the next waltz. 



44 



PORTRAIT OF CARL VAX VECHTEN 



To 

Gertrude Stein 



IN THE GENTLEMANLY INTEEEST 

Piccadilly 

HE polished snubs till they were regnant art, 
Curling their shameless toilets round the hour. 
Each lay upon his lips an exquisite flower 
Subtly malign and poisoned for its part. 
The path of victims was no wanton plan 
He had bowed his head in sorrow at his birth, 
For he had said long ere he came to earth 
That it was no place for a gentleman. 

But always a heart-scald lurked behind the screen, 
And somehow he missed the ultimate degrees. 
He saw a beggar at the daylight s fall 
And then he rose and robbed him for the scene : 
And when they called him cad he found release 
He felt he had used the finest snub of all. 



PORTEAITS OF LOUISE NORTON 



Tc 

Donald Evans 



BUVEUSE D ABSINTHE 

Rue d? Aphrodite 

HER voice was fleet-limbed and immaculate, 
And like peach blossoms blown across the wind 
Her white words made the hour seem cool and kind. 
Hung with soft dawns that danced a shadow fete. 
A silken silence crept up from the South, 
The flutes were hushed that mimed the orange moon, 
And down the willow stream my sighs were strewn, 
While I knelt to the corners of her mouth. 

Lead me afar from clamorous dissonance, 
For I am sick of empty trumpetings, 
Choking the highways with a dusty noise. 
Here I have found her sweet sheer utterance, 
.\jnd now I seek the garden of the wings 
Where I may bathe in sounds that life destroys. 



EXTREME UNCTION 

ACROSS the rotting pads in the lily lake 
Her gesture floated toward the iris bed, 
Wrapped in a whispered perfume of the dead, 
And her gaze followed slowly in its wake. 
Now was the summons come she must obey, 
For Beauty pleaded from the charnel house, 
For violet nights and violent carouse 
To free her from the cerements of decay. 

Crapulous hands reach out to strangle thee, 
And every moment is a winding-sheet, 
With bats to chant corruption s litany. 
Be thou a torch to flash fanfaronade, 
And as the earth crumbles beneath thy feet 
Flaunt thou the glitter of a new brocade ! 



52 



THE JADE VASE 

Pittsburgh 

HE had hunted for it to the alley s end, 
Yet when he found the jade vase he was sad, 
Low-pulsed with ennui for the praise he had 
Poured into bowls that merely did not offend. 
A wall of glass held back his worshipping. 
And his eves that drank this miracle of stone 
Acknowledged the discover} not his own 
Still the vase was there, and that was everything. 

He thought back over all the songs he had sung, 
And all the hours his heart like waving grain 
Had swayed to music. And the joys now dead 
Seemed haunting coins to meagre beauty flung. 
Poignantly he longed to call them back. In vain ! 
But they were the last words that the poet said. 



53 



PORTRAITS OF THE AUTHOR 



To 

Cornwall 



EPICEDE 

WISTFULLY shimmering, shamelessly wise and 
weak, 
He lives in pawn, pledging a battered name ; 
He loves his failures as one might love fame, 
And listens for the ghost years as they speak. 
A fragrance bright and broken clasps his head. 
And wildwood airs sing a frayed interlude, 
While cloaked he comes in a new attitude 
To play gravedigger if the word be said. 

He swore he would be glad and only glad, 
And turned to Broadway for the peace of God. 
He found it at the bottom of the glass. 
For where the dregs lay it was less than sad, 
And mid the murmur when the dance was trod 
He heard the echo of a genius pass. 



57 



IN THE FALKLANDS 

FOR his soul when homeless then is at home,, 
And in a paradise where shadows wane 
He draws droll figures on the windowpane 
To lure his vagrom fellow souls to Eome. 
There is a potent rancour in the moon, 
Hunting for those who love him still, three 
Gleam back. But with detached anxiety 
He vows that he will alienate them soon. 

He said that love had but two words, the last 
And first, and joy in flying laces lay. 
He watched each kiss to kill it at stark ease 
His strangler s hands carve prayers for the past 
And chastely he spends an hour every day 
Erecting tombstones to carnalities. 



58 



THE XOON OF NIGHT 

THE fietive tear he holds in reverence, 
And studies heady griefs that wash the cheek ; 
It is a dim dominion he must seek. 
To gain some raiment for his impotence. 
Sorrows are numbered, the sighs have their strings, 
And barren smiles are trained for tragedy ; 
He ties up parcels of mock gaiety, 
And labels them with many worshippings. 

Grapes in the grass, and every day a waste 

At scattered sources of lost loveliness. 

With drunkenness to drain the ruined seats. 

He knows his gems are turned to glassy paste 

But he thanks God aloof from all distress, 

For he knows sewer? run beneath the citv streets. 



59 



FIFTH AVENUE 

AND when discovery marred the best disguise 
He winced a sigh, bowed to a spoiled deceit, 
And donned the damask draperies of defeat 
To woo dishonour as an enterprise. 
His self-betrayal had its tenderness 
And reared an outland refuge for his pride, 
For all were baffled telling how he lied, 
Since more than any guessed he would confess. 

He died a hero in Fifth Avenue 
One yellowed day saving a tattered man. 
But in the litter of his passing breath 
A prayer lay lest one should misconstrue. 
It was an accident and he began 
A last profound apology to death. 



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